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Chapter X.

An Auckland paper Miss. Would you care to look at it?" And plump Mrs. Sebof put her head inside the door of her lodger's room.

"Thank you." Nellie took the proffered paper. "I don't suppose there is anything of interest in it to me," she mused, "but it pleased the old lady. I believe she only wanted to know what I was having for my tea." A laugh. "These old dames are up to all sorts of dodges, at anyrate she will see I do not live on luxuries." Another laugh, while the owner proceeded to spread the bread very sparingly with butter. "This butter will have to last me through to-morrow. I wonder who is married and who is dead, and who is born in that wonderful city, Auckland." She was glancing indifferently up and down the columns, when her eyes were arrested by a short paragraph, and she paused. "A prize given for the best original essay. Any subject, provided it is self chosen. All competitions to be sent in before the fourth of July." Nellie pushed away the paper and tried to finish her tea. It was in vain. The uplifted knife forgot to descend, and the bread remained untouched. Then it remembered its neglected duty, and began so vigoursly that it spent itself in the first stroke, finally it fell on the plate, and finally the tea was given up.

"Any subject, provided it is self chosen. Fourth of July." Nellie rose and consulted the calendar. "To late. To be in time it must be posted by Saturday, and this is Wednesday."

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"Any subject, provided it is self chosen. Fourth of July;" again spoke the voice.

"Don't make a fool of yourself. How can you write an essay? You don't know how to spell words correctly, let alone put them together. Go and be satisfied with your sewing machine." another voice said, and for a few moments the first voice was silenced; but back it came with renewed persistency, and harder it strove for mastery.

"Bother, I shall get no peace here. I'll go for a walk. I wish to goodness Mrs. Sebof had kept her old paper." Nellie put on her hat and jacket and sallied forth to get her usual antidote for agitation, a walk in the cool evening air; but for once the antidote failed and the fever increased.

"Oh well it is useless. It will have to run its course. When it has taken all the strength out of me I suppose it will leave." Back to the room she went; even the door seemed conspired against her, for in its creaking she fancied she heard those words. Down in front of her writing desk she sat. Her fingers closed over the pen and for a few minutes there was the sound of scratch, scratch.

"What next. Those hateful words are not satisfied with taking possession, of my thoughts, but they must engage the services of my hands." The paper was torn into pieces, the pen flung aside, and the girl arose; only to sink back into her chair, and her soliloquy. "I'll try for my own pleasure." And try she did. Twelve o'clock, Nellie sprang up. "There! that's enough for to-night, but I must do more to-morrow." When to-morrow night came, although she sat up until one o'clock, only three blotted and smudged sheets of writing appeared. "One night more, I must finish to-morrow." As soon as work was over on Friday night, she began. Writing tearing up, re-writing. Five o'clock Saturday morning the essay was finished. Nellie looked at her page 99watch. "I shall have two hours sleep. That leaves half an hour to dress, have my breakfast, and get to business." She threw herself on her bed and slept soundly, so soundly that had Mrs. Sebof not knocked at her door, she would have been late for work. Poor Mrs. Sebof afterwards declared she was afraid to enter the room for fear something dreadful had happened. "For sure an Miss Main is usually such and early riser, she is."

Nellie posted her precious papers, and tried to persuade herself that she did not care whether any notice was taken of them or not. But, when at the end of the week no answer came, she found she would care very much indeed. How little they, who carelessly skim over page after page of print, think of the pain and labour of almost every word. While critics tear and twist each sentence until the whole is a distorted and shapeless mass. Regardless of beauty in its uncouth grandeur, they seek to clothe the "voice of one crying in the wilderness." in the flowing garments of the "Sweet Saviour." To my mind the critic knows infinitly less than the criticised. Returning from work one afternoon Nellie found a small parcel on her table. "Just as I expected," she said to herself. "Good luck never falls to my lot." A letter lay beside the parcel. With trembling fingers she took it up and opened it. It was brief; only a few words of apology. The papers had not arrived in time, and Nellie was advised to revise her work and keep it for the present. If the one who penned those words knew what disappointment they conveyed to the reader, he would have appended a line of encouragement.

"So much for my literary work. The first and the last. There!" like another missive we already know of, this inoffensive parcel was hurled across the room, to do penance in solitude, until a kinder hand would rescue it from its dungeon of disdain.

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"Meanwhile how fared it with the Main household? After the excitement of moving from the centre of town to its outskirts was over, home life settled down in the ordinary home groove, with few variations. The residue of their fallen fortunes had been sufficient to secure the family a moderately comfortable home; and with Mr. Main's sterling qualities, and the independence of his elder children, a fair livelihood was gained. Indeed, things might have been decidedly worse, for had they not put their hands to the plough, there still remained enough to keep the family in bare necessities. But a living on bare necessities without an aim is not tolerable to the free born; and sons and daughters decided to work. Thus we find Nellie imprisoned in the four walls of a work room, eating of the husks of their former life, and rebelling, not against the work, but against work's claims and environments. The home was too far from town to allow her to attend business, so with her father's nature of independence, she hired a room, and lived and thrived therein. Every Saturday afternoon was given to the girls as a half-holiday; and these with Sunday, Nellie would spend at home, returning on Monday morning. For a whole year she continued to tread this oft trodden path. So regularly did the monotony of each day come and go, that she almost ceased to look forward to a brighter future.

The return of the Spring brought a break in the home circle. Miss Amelia Main, Nellie's eldest sister, was going to be married. October was a busy month for that quiet family, for everything had to be in readiness by the third of November. Between sewing, and teasing, and arranging and disarranging, there was little time for idleness. There was no hurry, no bustle however. "Willing hands made light work." And when the day of all days arrived not page 101one duty had been neglected. Mr. Main did not approve of display; indeed, he had a special aversion for weddings, and when one of the contracting parties was his daughter, he openly expressed his disapproval. Still he resigned himself to the inevitable, and suffered his chargin to reach no greater height than by commanding that everything be done as quietly as possible. The ceremony took place in the drawing room, which had been decorated for the great all-important occasion. The bride wore a dress of pale blue silk. No wreath rested on the open brow, no veil enshrined the slender form. Calmly she stood before the throne of her heritage; proudly she received her regalia; wearing on her queenly head no other ornament than that of her raven hair; adorned by nothing but her stately dignity. The white hands were smooth and bare, and the finger waited for the seal. One moment she stands beside her father, leaning upon his arm, the next beside her husband, leaning on his integrity. Is there not something surpassingly grave in a marriage, something infinitely mysterious. Why make a jest of such serious consequences. Think of the years of life before bride and bridegroom, and turn your jests into earnest wishes for their happiness.

The relatives of bride and bridegroom are the only guests at that simple wedding ceremony. The breakfast is partaken of with all the solemnity due to a prince. The bride's voice is full and rich with its ring of pride and happiness, and the bridegroom's courteous thanks and smiles are for one and all. In the evening two pipers arrive from town to play the old familiar airs of Mr. Main's boyhood; and all that night is spent in song and dance. Forethought united with wisdom to devise a scheme for the home-going of the happy couple; and for once the small boys—aye, and the big boys too—are cheated out page 102of their "tin-canning." What is it that makes Nellie so quiet? Her face is bright. Her words are witty. She darts in and out, among the people and through the rooms, like a bright-winged butterfly. Turning up lights that everything might sparkle. Playing polkas that everybody might stir. Gliding into waltzes that no one but herself might muse. Yet throughout it all you have never heard that hearty ringing laugh which is her chief charm. And if you had caught a glimpse of her face as she passed from the well-lighted hall into the dark passage beyond, you would have been struck by the expression of wistful sadness in the dark velvety eyes. Who knows but that the shadow of the next great event which was to take place in that home, and which was to change the whole course of her life and thoughts, who knows but that that shadow fell across her heart, crushing back the laugh ere it reached maturity.

I have sketched the rough outline of a wedding picture. The details and the colouring I leave to your discretion. Do not imagine all weddings are alike. None are. This one is the one I saw, and the one which took place. Had I time or inclination I would give several hints regarding the different shades of colouring; but the day waneth, and the evening draweth in apace, and there is still a journey to go. Besides, the imagination needs food, and weddings are the easiest digested.

The bride is a mother now, the bridegroom a father. One soul owes its being to this union. The world looks on and sees a fair-haired, rosy-cheeked child throw her arms around her mother's neck, lisping, "I's oo's dirl, isn't I, mamma?" It sees the mother release her child from her close embrace and place it in its father's arms, while the lisping voice continues, "And daddy's too." It sees the little one clasped, with all a father's solicitude, to page 103a father's breast. Happy child! Happy parents! Live on in your love and faith. Shall a shadow be cast over their joy and peace by our forebodings? God forbid. Wish that the father and mother may unite in the desire, the welfare of their child? Insufficient. A voice from my own childhood arises and tells me that wish is not enough. "Pray," it says, "that wisdom may be given to those parents to discern the difference between the things which are and the things which seem to be."

Nellie returned to her work and her fears. The remembrance of that simple service, and the serious changes it had wrought in two lives, became food for thought during many of her solitary evening hours; and many a sad thrill disturbed the wandering mind as she felt that the sister of her younger days was now the wife of another.